you have gone
by ifonly13
Summary: All she leaves is a note. :: For Morgan.


_**you have gone**_

* * *

_For Morgan._

* * *

He keeps waiting for his phone to ring.

He keeps waiting for the knock to echo through the loft.

He keeps waiting for the door to open.

He keeps waiting.

The note she left on his desk is crumpled in a ball; folds formed as he read and re-read the words, creases from when he threw the single sheet against the wall. Some of the letters are smeared. Long black lines that look like her mascara from yesterday that streaked down over her cheeks.

He barely turns his head from where he's got it balanced on the heels of his hands to see the note where it rests against the base of the lamp, soft light falling on the sharp edges.

If there were a time for a rewind button, now would be the time to pull the remote from among the controllers for his miniature helicopters and laser tag gear and get them back to before this thing. Before he said something so incredibly fucking stupid and set all of it into motion.

Looking back, he should find it a little ironic that he was the one to storm from his own apartment. He left her standing in the living room with the dust settling around her, catching the late afternoon sun still coming through the windows, unaware of the event it was highlighting. But he'd needed desperately to level off and he couldn't do that knowing she was in the apartment trying to pull her guts back into her body after he sliced her open.

And when he got back from the very long, cold walk, shivering with the chill and the icy thread of regret running through his body and found half of the closet empty, the four drawers in his bureau cleaned out, the absence of her make-up and shampoo and razor in the bathroom. And the single piece of paper left on the corner of his desk where she always leaned her hip after getting back from work and finding him writing, running her fingers through his hair until he was too distracted by Beckett to think about Nikki.

His fingers itch to grab his phone and call her. His feet want to get out the door, into a cab, and to the precinct. He needs to see her, to make sure she's okay.

Because he's not.

It's been a week and he's not okay.

So he snags his keys and wallet, stuffs the note into the pocket of the jeans he's been wearing for days, and gets into his car. It takes some adjusting to park outside of the precinct without her being able to see the car as soon as she walks out.

She looks good. Make-up done, leather jacket over fitted jeans with low-heeled boots. She's listing to the side and he knows it's because her bag is filled with files for the case they must be working. Ryan and Esposito are a few steps behind her and he knows that they'll split at the subway station; she's going downtown while they head to the outer boroughs.

Suddenly, he can't stay still and watch her take the stairs down to the station. He stumbles from the car, the keys falling onto the ground with a jingle before he grabs them.

"Beckett!" he shouts across the street, jogging in front of a cab and nearly getting clipped before he dodges. "Kate!"

She turns, scanning the lines of cruisers until she sees him. "What?" she snaps but he doesn't care because she stopped moving toward the subway entrance.

He's out of breath when he gets to the corner, just feet from her. Close enough to reach out and touch the soft skin on the back of her hand that's braced on her hip. "I just needed to..."

"You're a bestseller. If you say 'see you' next..."

"Make sure you're okay," he finishes lamely.

She takes a deep breath, her eyes closing as she gathers herself. "I'm... Castle..."

"I'm sorry," he chokes out, taking a step forward. "I'm a bastard and an idiot and I understand why you left but I needed to tell you that I'm truly sorry."

He pivots to leave, the note crinkling in his pocket with the movement. If he stays a minute longer, he'll do something he'll regret again.

But she follows, her fingers snatching at the sleeve of his jacket. "Wait," she says quietly. He doesn't look back. "I really hate you sometimes, you know? You piss me off and seriously make me considering shooting you on a daily basis. You pry and dig and you don't stop when I ask you to." He hears her breathing, shallow and soft, and the brush of her leather jacket against the strap of her bag. "But, Castle."

He chances a look back and finds her shoulders hunched over, her ponytail falling over her neck.

"I love you more than all that. Most of the time. Except for when you do shit like this."

"I'll change-"

"No," she says quickly, glancing up and stepping into his space for the first time since a week ago. "No, I don't want you to change who you are."

"Then tell me what to do, Beckett."

"Come back here. We need you. I need you," she sighs, her fingertips cool against his hand.

He waits for her to make the first move. To make the slide of her hand against his become her arms around his neck as she lifts herself up onto her toes to bury her nose into his neck before he pulls her as close as possible. Her heavy bag bumps against his thigh and the zipper of her jacket scrapes against the soft fabric of his t-shirt.

"Move back in," he begs into her temple, his lips dry at her hairline. "Please."

Her laugh is one spark of brightness in the dark, the soft exhale along his neck that has him shivering. "Never really left." She pulls back and he sees the amusement on her face mixing with the lingering anger and frustration and it's oh so welcome. "Didn't you check the guest room?"

"What?"

She steps back, shifting the bag up further onto her shoulder as she takes the keys from his hand. "Moved most of my stuff up there and took what I needed to survive at Lanie's for a few weeks."

"You're a sneak," he mutters, walking after her to snag the keys from her fingers. He slides into the drivers seat, letting the muffled sounds of the city stay in the car with them for a moment. "I am sorry."

"I know," she says, pushing her fingers through his hair, curling over his ear. "Sometimes I need space to work through the issues alone, without you."

"Wanna slide me a note to let me know that next time?" he asks, backing out of the spot. "A post-it on the fridge or the kitchen counter or my forehead?"

She braces her left forearm on the center console, leaning just far enough that her lips touch his jaw. "I think I can manage that."


End file.
